


nothing is forever anymore

by inconocible



Series: as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Child Loss, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Panic, Pregnancy, Regret, Uhh listen this started as just a quick unbetaed drabble for the discord and yet here we are, past major character death, post-epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 22:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17516660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconocible/pseuds/inconocible
Summary: “I’ve been thinkin’,” Abigail says to him, one night, late, while they’re sitting up by the last log on the fire, quiet, their hands occupied with idle, necessary work, mending a hole in a pair of Jack’s pants, sharpening a knife.“‘Bout what,” he asks her, not even looking up from the whetstone.“You feelin’ particular about names?” she asks him. “For the baby?”





	nothing is forever anymore

**Author's Note:**

> love like i’ve never knew before  
> someday will fade and be ignored  
> slipping through my fingers [wanting more](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NjipAOTXJg)

Of the many things to deal with when Abigail tells him she’s pregnant -- _God, damn, fuck, Abigail’s_ **_pregnant_** _,_ \-- one thing that’s such a routine thing turns out to be such an unexpected spring of hurt, for John.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” Abigail says to him, one night, late, while they’re sitting up by the last log on the fire, quiet, their hands occupied with idle, necessary work, mending a hole in a pair of Jack’s pants, sharpening a knife.

“‘Bout what,” he asks her, not even looking up from the whetstone.

“You feelin’ particular about names?” she asks him. “For the baby?”

“Not really,” he says. He hadn’t exactly had a choice in Jack’s case, and he doesn’t exactly have a preference in this one. He glances over at her, though, knowing the tone of her voice. “You?” he asks, knowing, knowing she’s already got an answer up her sleeve.

“Mm-hm,” she hums, not looking up from her sewing.

“Okay,” John says.

Ten minute pass; John finishes sharpening the knife, gets up, walks outside, smokes his last cigarette of the night, come back in, bolts the door of the house securely. Sits back down. Studies her. Thinks about -- about all the shit babies need, about how much there is left to do, still, about how they’re running out of time to get it done. Sighs some.

Abigail lays the patched pair of pants down over her lap, lays her hand on her six-months-round stomach. “Arthur Matthews Marston,” she pronounces, clear and firm, and John feels like he’s about halfway to a heart attack, all of a sudden, just to hear the words coming out of her mouth. “If it’s a boy,” she says, her eyes half-closed, dreamy, like she’s barely taken any notice of the way John’s gone all stiff, tight, feels suddenly like he can’t breathe. “And I’ve been toyin’ with Morgan Matthews Marston for a girl, I feel like Morgan could work for a girl. But,” and she sighs, shrugs, keeps going, thoughtful, happy, “it feels a little _cosmopolitan_ , and, and all those em sounds, I gotta think on it. I do think I like it though, what do you --”

“Abigail,” John rasps, cutting her abruptly off, and it comes out far, far more desperate, broken, upset, than he’d expected or meant for it to. “Abigail, I don’t --”

“What?” she asks, looking over at him, finally, really, _looking_ at him, now. “Ain’t it proper? If it weren’t for Arthur, well, I don’t know where we’d be. Not here, havin’ another baby, that’s for sure.” She sighs, shakes her head. “And I know, I know we don’t got much love for any of _our_ parents, so Hosea’s only -- well, he’s only the most natural choice, for the middle name, isn’t he?”

John can’t breathe.

“Sure,” he says, shallow, shaky, his head suddenly dizzy, dizzy. He covers his face with one hand, pinches at the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, slides his hand up, presses the heel of it into his browbone. “Sure,” he says again. "Sure, you’re right, I’m -- you’re right.”

He takes his hand off his face, stands up. “I’m gonna -- “ and he looks down at his suddenly-trembling hands, swallows heavily. “Uh, go, uh, feed the horses,” he says vaguely, taking three uncertain steps toward the door.

Abigail gets up, lays a hand on his forearm. “You’ve already done that tonight,” she says. She looks up at him. “You don’t -- am I upsettin’ you?”

“No,” John says, quickly, shaking his head, swallowing heavily. “No, no, I just -- haven’t -- haven’t thought about those times in awhile, I guess, is all.”

Abigail looks at him for a long, quiet moment; squeezes his forearm. “Come to bed,” she says, letting her hand slide down into his, and he lets her lead him, lead him like a stupid, dumb, awe-struck cow, follows her into their room, lays down next to her, but none of it feels like _him_. He feels like he’s trapped, in the moment inside the noose, one fragile breath away from either joy or death.

Abigail falls asleep and John lays awake for long hours, thinking about why it’s been so long since either of them have spoken Arthur’s name aloud, about why they don’t talk about him, anymore, even though they talk about the others some, still. About why it hurts so -- so _much_ , still.

When John finally falls asleep, he dreams like he’s twelve years old again, dreams of hanging, and when he jerks awake with a gasp, it’s not the achingly familiar nightmare but the knowledge that neither Arthur nor Hosea are there anymore to comfort him about it that undoes him, drives him out of bed onto his shaky legs, makes him pull his coat on and sit on the front porch step and gasp over a cigarette, and then another, and then another, shaking, shaking, unable to fucking calm himself down. He tries to think of every memory of every time he’d wake up like this and Arthur would be there, or Hosea, and he tries to let his memories comfort him, but they just make it all worse. He can’t calm down because only Arthur or Hosea can do that, and, and, and, they’re --

The sun rises and he needs to ride into town for a new pack of cigarettes and nothing has helped, he still feels the noose around his neck, still feels completely not fucking calmed down, Hosea’s but especially Arthur’s absence paining him like a missing limb he’d somehow managed to forget he’d lost,  _goddamnit_. Fuck.

*

Weeks pass and they’re in town and John is daydreaming, drifting in the lazy warmth of the afternoon, sitting on the front porch of the general store, waiting on Abigail and Jack to pick out their groceries, some bolts of cloth she’s been goin’ on about for baby clothes, shit they need, whatever. John’s just been listenin’ to a couple of the old fellers shootin’ the shit, watchin’ people pass in the street, wishin’ he had more of a natural talent for sketchin’ and drawin’, wishin’ he could make an impression of this moment, that he were smarter, that he cared more about recording life happening around him, that he were better at followin’ examples of doin’ just that, examples that followed him around for years, never stuck quite right.

“Arthur.”

Abigail’s voice, in conversation moving from the back to the front of the store, cuts into John’s daydream, melodic and happy, drifts through the open shutters of the store, and -- God, fuck, is it ever _not_ going to make all the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand the fuck up, to hear her say it? “It’ll be Arthur, I hope. Yes, and this here’s my first baby, Jack, he’s named after his father -- I’m hopin’ for another son, yes ma’am, Arthur, that’ll be his name. After his -- his uncle, my husband’s late brother.”

Abigail speaks to the shopkeeper, “Yessir, I’ll take four bolts of this, and five of this one, please, and -- Jack, darlin’? what’d you do with your pa’s coffee?” -- and there’s more voices in the conversation, first an older lady -- “Oh, yes, that is a fine name indeed, and what about if it’s a little girl?” -- and a third, another old lady -- “Now, Mary, look at how she’s carryin’ that child, it’s surely going to come out a boy,” -- and the first old lady -- “Well, you never know, I carried my Ellie just the same and she came out a girl,” -- and Abigail laughs, “Well, if it’s a girl we’re just gonna call her Morgan, his, uh, his middle name, you see,” -- and the older ladies cooing, “Ahh, yes, that’s very nice, dear, very different, such a fine way to honor an uncle passed,” -- and -- and -- and John ought to be walking in there, paying the fucking bill, helping Jack carry the fucking groceries, but his feet feel fixed to the fucking porch.

His brain feels fucking stuck.

His heart feels fucking broken.

Arthur. Morgan. Whichever. Either.

How many times, for the rest of his life, is he gonna have to hear -- ?

John covers his face with both his hands, breathes heavily into his palms. Can he really fucking do this, can --

“Jack, would you go get your father, please,” Abigail’s asking, and there’s heavy footsteps across the floorboards of the store, out onto the porch, and Jack’s there, in front of him, before he can take his hands off his face. “Pa,” Jack’s saying, “Mama wants you,” and John sighs again.

“I know,” he says, “I know, I’m comin’.”

And he gets up and lets the old ladies tell him what a beautiful family, how lovely Abigail looks, how blessed they are, and he smiles through the whole fucking thing, makes a convincing case of being civil, a good, good father, tips his hat to them, pays the bill, loads up the wagon, drives them home but -- God, God fucking _damnit_ , he can’t stop thinking --

Arthur. Morgan. Matthews Marston. Fuck.

*

It’s a girl it’s a girl it’s a girl and Abigail carefully passes her to him, all perfect and fragile and wrapped in a blanket and cleaned up from the birth, and John loves her, John’s in love with her, despite every instinct left in his body telling him to be careful, to not let himself fall all the way. “Morgan Matthews Marston, right?” Abigail asks, and John laughs.

He is in love with his daughter and his wife is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, radiant and powerful after victoriously completing this amazing act, bringing this baby into the world, and he forgets his cowardice: He forgets how he wasn’t there when Jack came into the world; he forgets how Arthur was there, instead; he forgets about all the bad things he’s done, all the hurt he’s felt, because his tiny newborn daughter has the darkest mop of perfect hair, and she’s fluttering her delicate eyelashes at him, and he’s in _love_.

“Okay,” he whispers, hoarse, so wrapped up in this. So overwhelmed. “Okay, sure, darlin’. Morgan -- Matthews Marston, sure, that’s -- that’s good, but --” and he sighs, enraptured by the moment, runs the most careful, callused index finger over the swell of his daughter’s cheek. “Listen, Abigail,” he rasps, “y’know, to me, she really feels more like a -- more like a Grace, than a Morgan,” he says.

“Grace?” Abigail asks.

He nods. “Grace,” he whispers. He looks back down at Abigail. “You wanted to -- to name the baby after him, after what -- what he done, for us, right? Can we -- can we call her Grace? It feels -- feels right.”

She nods. “Grace Morgan Matthews Marston,” she tries, and it does feel right, because it _is_ right -- and, John’s anxious, anxious brain distantly supplies, now he won’t have to spend all the rest of his days saying Morgan, Morgan, Morgan; will, instead, get to say Grace. Grace. Grace.

“Yep,” he agrees, and he feels like he’s never known how to smile in his whole fucking life, until now. He laughs. He smiles down at his daughter, fluttering her pretty long dark eyelashes up at him. “Hey, Gracie,” he whispers, and he falls in love with the way it sounds, coming out of his mouth, all soft and round and loved and less hard than Morgan, Morgan. “Little Gracie triple-Em,” he adds, tracing the curve of her nose reverently, joyously, giddily. “Big name we done gave you, girl.”

“She’ll live up to it,” Abigail says.

*

Nearly seven years pass and a sickness rips through the area, through the schoolhouse Gracie’s been goin’ to for a couple years now, and John isn’t the only father carving a small casket, digging a small grave, and this ain’t his first rodeo, by far, not like it is for some of the other families, those whose menfolk are actually _good_ men, ain’t never become accustomed to death the way he should have, after all these fucking years, but it --

It’s the hardest fucking grave John’s ever had to dig.

Abigail is crying and Jack has been silent, stone-faced, since it happened, and John doesn’t know what to do, what to think. “Grace Morgan Matthews Marston,” the preacher says, as they lower the casket into the grave, and John, John --

Late at night, later, after, he lets himself out of the house, and Abigail doesn’t stop him, doesn’t call after him. John goes back out there, out to where her grave is, and he sits down, reaches into the inner breast pocket of his coat.

Opens the old, old book, fingering its pages reverently, lovingly, afraid of ruining them, losing the last of Morgan and Matthews and, now, Grace, forever.

He hasn’t drawn in so long, he’s shit at drawing, but the moon is near to full and bright and calm, and he sighs, tries to focus, like Hosea and Dutch and Arthur always used to encourage him to; like he did, when he last put pencil to this book, years ago, to make the sketch in the page before the one he’s on now.

Before long, Gracie’s headstone in the light of the moon is memorialized in the journal -- to the best of John’s meager abilities, anyhow -- and John flips the page over, back to the drawing he made of Arthur’s, so long ago, and he sighs.

“Take care of our little girl, d’ya hear me,” he whispers, to the book. To the moon. To the earth. He feels something hard and angry and sad swelling in his throat and he -- he swallows. 

“D’you hear me, Arthur,” John whispers, and it comes out broken, broken, fucking broken, just like everything else in his goddamn life.

And John lets himself cry.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about this i literally don't know where it came from i'm just  
> murdering myself over these sad cowboys 24/7 :'''(  
> [tumblr](https://inconocible.tumblr.com/)


End file.
